Anyone unfamiliar with this Lower East Side (Manhattan,
NYC) mob of miscreants might well ascertain all they need
to know by taking a look (and a sniff) at the cover of an
early single that came spattered in (very real) pig's
blood. All of those left in the room after first exposure
will no doubt revel in the sternum-crushing rhythms and
bewildering sample overload emanating from the speakers-and
give extra points for the luridly anti-authority (heck,
anti-everything) slogans that lead snarler Tod Ashley lobs
into the mix.

Calculatingly deconstructing rock'n'roll in a manner
spiritually akin to Pussy Galore (whose Jon Spencer briefly
played metal percussion in the band Shithaus with Cop's Tod
A.) if sonically opposite (CSC uses two basses and no
guitar), Cop Shoot Cop shared the same taste for indulging
in pain, filth, disillusion and discontent. Unfortunately,
that stance reduced their otherwise potent strain of
subversive diversion to a cliché of sorts. Rarely
did they achieve the serrated poetry of decadence skirted
most prominently these days by Nick Cave and Henry Rollins
(after Burroughs and Bukowski), more often settling for a
showoff revelry of attitude easily pegged as Little
Black.

Cop Shoot Cop formed out of the ashes of noisemasters
Dig Dat Hole and exceedingly confrontational junk-blues
potentates Black Snakes (a band that counted among its
members transgressive filmmaker Richard Kern). The quartet
wasted no time establishing a reputation for sonic fuckery
through use of sheet-metal percussion and guitar disavowal
(Ashley and Jack Natz both play bass, with the former
taking credit for "high end" version of the instrument).
The early self-released EPs move with a decidedly
mechanical grind, but sidestep industrial pigeonholing
thanks to the inventive found-sound sampling of "Cripple"
Jim Filer. The wall-of-noise sampling, odd stuttered
timings and belligerent anti-structures illustrate a
conceptual ambition underscored by such psychotic
psychedelic sound collages as "Disconnected 666," somewhat
less structurally/sonically intricate than Pere
Ubu's "Sentimental Journey" but drawn from the same dark
core of industrial paranoia. Harking back in some ways to
the days of New York no wave, Cop Shoot Cop score three
toes idiot, seven toes savant on Piece Man  an
improvement over Headkick Facsimile's ratio of five
to five.

Consumer Revolt (which disappeared almost
instantly after its initial release on a flimsy Long Island
indie) finds Ashley formulating a barbed, whipsmart
perspective on American society, accented by fractured
backing tracks that always manage to fall away when the
frontman is about to deliver his punchline. Black humor
beats black metal any day.

Passing judgments like "Injustice is never an
accident/Repression is only a state of mind"
("Traitor/Martyr") on the shapely, song-strong White
Noise suggest that there is a moral gyroscope to all
this. Still, Ashley saves his best lines for the usual
topics: "Corporate Protopop" (foreshadowing an obsession
that would get further consideration on the next release)
promises "Your needs are our main concern" and urges
consumers to "nurture your desires...cultivate your
desires...let them grow and flower into the blossom that is
greed."

In characteristic fashion, Suck City steamrolls
anyone who'd cry "major-label sellout" by shamelessly
presenting the four-song EP as just that: A sleeve line
even suggests that buyers should "file under '90s
nostalgia." Although most of the material is subdued,
almost funereal, the title track swings with an exaggerated
swagger as Ashley unravels a self-mocking, post-"Truckin' "
bio ("We'll be history by 34 / There's always the reunion
tour...suck city, here we come") that should put the tired
genre to rest once and for all. The ensuing Ask
Questions Later maintains that acrimony, wrapping
Ashley's ever-virulent neo-anarchist rhetoric (which proves
particularly potent on "$10 Bill" and "Got No Soul") in
elaborate arrangements that employ a three-man horn section
keyed by trombonist David Ouimet.

For Release, the band broke with (or caved in to)
tradition by adding a guitarist, Steve McMillen, even
though the still-bass-heavy sound of songs
like "Interference" and the Mancini-on-methadone "Last
Legs" indicates they don't seem to have found a lot for him
to do. Nevertheless, the crisper overall sound and
scrupulous inclusion of previously superfluous frills like
easy hooks and singalong choruses ("It Only Hurts When I
Breathe" strives oh-so-hard for anthemic status) paint a
picture of a band sneaking surreptitiously toward the
mainstream.

After playing in a nascent version of Cop Shoot Cop,
David Ouimet formed Motherhead Bug, a purposefully
disconcerting industrial orchestra. On Zambodia, the
free-flowing aggregation appears as a nine-piece, with
three drummers, two string players and a horn trio carving
out rough-hewn noisebursts. The instrumentation and
Ouimet's theatrical vocals lend a decadent grandeur to
Weill-esque numbers like "Demon Erection" and "My Sweet
Milstar." It may be burlesque, but it's still pretty scary
stuff.